


it's only your expectations

by vigilantejam



Series: exercise our sum control [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chance Meetings, Dubious Ethics, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Rough Sex, Stalking, just. they are not good people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam
Summary: “I’m Charles.”He shakes the hand that Charles offers. It is warm and soft and small in his.“Stanley.”
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Stephen S. Stanley
Series: exercise our sum control [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046140
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	it's only your expectations

**Author's Note:**

> hello! if you're nervous about the dub-con tag, skip to the end notes where there is a spoiler but also a bit more clarity. or else just skip this completely.
> 
> love as ever to robokittens. thanks for the beta, and for reducing the fic down to a single sentence that made me scream with laughter. (also see end notes, yes it's the same sentence)

He isn’t sure what started it this time. The wait in the bar had been a little too long, punctuated with a few too many jostled elbows as the small space filled with eager patrons competing for too few seats. The dining room was weekend busy; every table occupied by a buzzing and excitable party. He was a little short of patience perhaps, with Alex needling at the edges of his irritability with knowing assurances that it would be worth it. When they were finally shown to their table the waiter brought over the wine list along with gracious apologies and a sharing plate of tiny slivers of cured duck dressed with green herb oil. Practically glowing in the warm and comfortable light, Alex had somehow refrained from actually saying the words _I told you so,_ but had nevertheless raised his eyebrows, and broken out a dazzling smile that unleashed his most insufferable dimples. The full McDonald triple. Stanley had relaxed immediately, but kept himself stony-faced for just long enough to give a dour grunt that made Catriona start giggling. Then the corner of his mouth twitched and Alex cracked and they all laughed together while Mary-Ann simply sighed and regarded them over the top of her dark-rimmed glasses.

Perhaps a glass had been dropped somewhere, or a knife had squeaked and screamed against a plate. Whatever had happened, Stanley had missed the early warning signs and his pleasant evening had been shattered. Suddenly every clatter of crockery, every shout from the kitchen, every scrape of a chair and peal of laughter is an ice pick behind his eyes.

He rubs the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, a habit he knows doesn’t work, and catches the concern in Mary-Ann’s eyes. He breathes out slowly and fixes a smile on his face. He nods along to whatever Alex is saying, searching out the smooth lilt of his voice among the racket. He brings another forkful of sole and samphire to his mouth and tries to concentrate on the subtle and complex flavours, the melting texture.

There’s no escape. He swallows thickly and rises suddenly from the table. He can tell from Alex’s expression it was not a reasonable point in the conversation to do so. He’s looking at him with affront and wide eyes, but with an amused quirk to his mouth, as though nothing about Stanley’s abrupt behaviour truly surprises him anymore.

“Excuse me a moment,” Stanley says bluntly. He rests a hand on Mary-Ann’s shoulder, and gives her a reassuring squeeze. He feels the tips of her fingers brush over his as he makes for the door.

He has seen one or two people go out here from the dining room, but he isn’t sure what to expect. What he finds is a couple of shallow patio steps leading down to a small and slightly overgrown garden. There are two wooden and weather-worn picnic benches, each scattered with a collection of ashtrays. The air is light and cool in the shadows of the late evening sun, but still Stanley barely has a chance to draw breath and appreciate it before the door opens again and two men join him outside, the inexorable cacophony of the restaurant roaring out behind them. They’re young and boisterous, but as they tumble down the steps they glance over at where he is standing, lower their voices, and move over to the other side of the weed-strewn lawn.

The taller of the two produces a pack of cigarettes. He has foppish hair that falls over his eyes in stripes of silver and grey, though he can’t be much over thirty. He’s wearing a garish pink floral shirt and burgundy trousers that are rolled up to just above his bare ankles. White loafers. Stanley’s lip twitches involuntarily. The man looks like a pop art flamingo. He lights his cigarette and takes a few draws before it is plucked from his fingers by his companion, who doesn’t stop talking even when he’s inhaling. They couldn’t be less alike, looking at them. If the tall one is a flamingo, this one is a magpie. Black suit and white shirt, very well tailored; he has hopped up to perch on one of the bench tables. He’s small and dark and neat and moves in little jerks and twitches, his quick eyes darting over to Stanley every couple of seconds. Stanley doesn't have to guess what kind of bumps and lines he’s probably doing in the bathroom.

Stanley’s ears are still ringing and they’re speaking just quietly enough and just far away enough that he can’t make out what they’re saying. Instead their voices wash over him in a murmur of familiar rhythms but blissfully unintelligible words. He’s surprised to find it soothing him.

He’s aware they have finished their cigarette when a loud expletive and a cackle of laughter break his momentary peace. Stanley turns and they both glance over at him again before the flamingo goes back inside alone. The magpie is heading in Stanley’s direction.

“Hello,” he says. He’s bright and cheery, as if they’re already friends. There’s a flash of teeth in a smile that raises his round, high cheekbones.

“Hello,” Stanley says back, decidedly neither bright nor cheery.

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening, but people usually come out here to smoke and you’re… just lurking in the shadows, alone,” he arches an eyebrow. “Could be a cry for help.”

Stanley doesn’t reply, and doesn’t object when the man moves a step closer. A step that measures the distance from idle conversation to one with intent.

“Could be a cry for something else.”

The man bites at the corner of his lower lip and looks Stanley up and down with a long sweep of dark brown eyes. It’s probably a very effective technique.

“I’m Charles.”

He shakes the hand that Charles offers. It is warm and soft and small in his. “Stanley.”

“Stanley,” Charles repeats, and smiles like he’s trying not to.

“What?” Stanley frowns.

“Nothing. You just don’t look much like a Stanley.”

“How about a Stephen?”

“Yes, that’s much better.”

“Is it.”

“I didn’t want to call you old-fashioned.”

“Most people call me Stanley,” he says, flat and desert dry and Charles barks out a surprised laugh.

“Is it your _last_ name? You’re one of _those,”_ Charles gives him another once over, tilting his head to the side and making an exaggerated noise of consideration. “Hmm, I’m going to say Harrow. Or the army. Or _both?”_

Stanley narrows his eyes. He runs his tongue across the front of his teeth, and decides to concede a point. “Charterhouse.”

The smug smile he gets in return is attractive and he wants to hurt it.

“I don’t suppose you have a cigarette?”

Stanley makes a pantomime of patting his pockets down. “I don’t smoke. As you have already noted.”

“But you _used_ to, I’ll bet. Your voice,” Charles says, with a single bat of his eyelashes. He nods where Stanley’s left hand is still flat over his suit jacket pocket, at the gold ring on his finger. “Wife doesn’t approve.”

“Gave it up before I met her, actually.”

“Then I bet right, you’re an ex-smoker.” The smile again. “Like me.”

“I just watched you smoke half of that man’s cigarette.”

“I _knew_ you were watching. Anyway, that doesn’t count, does it? When it’s someone else’s.”

“Ah, you’re one of _those,”_ Stanley drawls.

Charles opens his mouth to continue the rally, but stops when the garden door opens. His tall friend pokes his head out, rolls his eyes at Charles, and goes away again. Charles sighs.

“Well, Mr Stephen Stanley, it appears I am being summoned. I shall leave you to your lurking. It was very nice to meet you.”

Charles extends his hand again and this time the contact lingers. Stanley tightens his fingers just a little too firmly around Charles’, just to see. Charles inhales quickly and quietly and his eyes spark.

“We’re going on to-” he starts.

“No, thank you,” Stanley cuts him off and releases his hand.

There’s a pause and then Charles sets his face with the same easy smile again.

“Right. Of course. Good night,” he says with a gracious nod, and walks away.

Stanley watches him to the door where he turns and winks and then disappears.

He waits before making his own way back to the dining room. He would perhaps prefer a moment more, but he can’t stay out here much longer without making the others worry.

At the table Mary-Ann and Alex are still eating, although Catriona has cleared her plate and is leaning back in her chair, twisting a curl of her long hair around her fingers and laughing at something Mary-Ann is saying.

Alex cheers as Stanley approaches. “We were about to give you up for dead!”

He gives Stanley a moment to sit down before leaning over and adding, quieter, “You know I can look at that for you, if you’d like.”

“It’s fine,” Stanley says, sharper than he means to. “It’s just a headache. The air helped.”

“Suit yourself,” says Alex with a pacifying smile and returns his attention to the others.

The air did help. In fact, during his whole conversation with Charles, Stanley had only noticed the pinch and stab behind his eyes once, and now it has faded to a dull throb. Mary-Ann, always with a little more patience and less intrusion than Alex, places a hand over his, and when Stanley turns to his wife he nods and she blinks. All is well.

As he finishes his meal, Stanley is aware of the people moving in his periphery, but catches sight of neither Charles nor the flamingo. Going on somewhere, Charles said. He thinks about the flash in his eyes at the rough handshake, and of his hands being rough with the rest of him, tangling in his hair and pulling. He takes a sip of wine and smiles. It’s almost a shame he’ll never see him again.

* * *

The following Wednesday, in the middle of a week in which Stanley has given little further thought to Charles, a padded envelope is delivered to his office. There’s no return address or any other indication of where it came from, and his assistant only shrugs and offers a vague description of a bike courier.

Stanley tears away the strip at the back of the envelope and upends it onto his desk. A silver cigarette case lands with a light rap and rocks back and forth on its gently curved face. Stanley picks it up and turns it about in his hand. It fits the contour of his palm perfectly. One side is engraved with delicate and clean cross-hatching, the other with an elaborately detailed illustration. He runs his thumb over the etching, following the shape of the snake twined around a branch. The fine texture burrs against his skin and the cool metal warms under his touch. He’s no silverware expert, but it appears to be very fine work. He finds the clasp on the side and as he squeezes it down the case springs open. Inside is a single cigarette, tucked behind a sprung silver arm along with a dark grey business card. The handwritten note reads:

    

_Doctor Stephen Stanley._

_Just so you’re a little more prepared next time, and I’m a little less disappointed_

_C x_

Stanley turns the card over, and embossed in copper foil is the name Charles F. Des Voeux, and a phone number.

* * *

Charles doesn’t answer the phone right away. Stanley clears his throat while he listens to the ring. He toes at the gravel path and tests the waters. Little stones that roll this way and that to his bidding, and crunch under pressure. His pulse stays steady. When the call connects there is no voice on the other end, only the light clattering and flat-walled echo of someone moving about a kitchen.

“Charles.”

“Oh,” Charles answers. He sounds surprised. “Yes, hello.”

“Stanley.”

“Hi,” he laughs, the ease of their first meeting coming to him quickly. “Sorry, withheld number. I was expecting some call centre twat and Hello Mister _Dez Vox_ or whatever.”

“Hmm. So why did you answer?”

The clattering stops.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charles says after a pause. “I was bored and felt like saying yes to something. And here you are.”

There’s a half-joke intonation to his voice, and Stanley can almost see Charles’ eyes dancing with it.

“Would you like to meet me for a drink?” He keeps his own voice low and steady.

There’s a longer pause this time, a teasing and tantalising pause. It starts prickles running along the backs of his forearms.

“Yes.”

Stanley lets out the breath he was holding.

“Would you be free tonight? Tomorrow perhaps.”

“No, no plans tonight.”

“Where would be convenient?”

“Convenient? I don’t know I’m pretty easy,” Charles laughs. “Around Greenwich would be very _convenient.”_

Stanley smiles to himself and checks his watch. “The Beauford, then. In an hour.”

“Excellent, I’ll see you th-”

Stanley ends the call. He tucks his thumb across his palm and rubs at the edge of his wedding band. He sets his jaw and steps back inside the hotel. The Beauford is hardly his usual sort of place. It sits overlooking the golf course, without being a part of the resort. Nonetheless it is populated almost exclusively by golfers who won’t stretch to the Royal, and instead opt for the white walls, scratchy upholstery, and generic by-numbers corporate art. It is cheap, soulless, and gloriously anonymous. And his idea about the location has paid off. Without stooping to Charles’ level of invasive personal sleuthing, he had only a hint of an accent to work from, and a hunch about a Canary Wharf high-rise.

“I will take the room, thank you,” he says, and slides a credit card across the front desk.

He waits in the foyer, in a chair that sits too low to the floor and has arms that are too high, but gives a good view of the entrance. He reads the news on his phone while glancing over the people who come and go.

After forty-seven minutes Charles walks through the door. He’s dressed more casually than he had been at the restaurant. This shirt is patterned, pale dots, small and sparse over deep indigo, with three buttons undone and open to show a glimpse of lightly tanned collarbones. Charcoal grey slacks. Bespoke again, by the looks of them. Stanley rises from his chair and Charles approaches him with a small wave and stops close enough that he has to tilt his head up a little to meet Stanley’s eyes.

“You’re early.”

“Am I making a good impression?”

“Hmm.”

Stanley blinks down at him and Charles bares his teeth in a wide grin. He smells good too. Stanley keeps his hands behind his back and checks his pulse once more. _Steady._

“The bar is that way,” he says, without moving to indicate any direction. “I have a room upstairs.”

Charles’ eyes darken and the tip of his tongue darts out across his lips.

“Well then, lead the way.”

They’re barely inside the room before Charles is crowding up to him. The door clicks closed and Charles pushes him back against it with his hands flat over Stanley’s stomach. His fingertips press in as he rises on his toes, his face angling up to a kiss. Stanley turns his head out of the way with a flare of his nostrils. If that’s the first thing Charles wants, it’ll be the last thing he gets.

Charles makes a small disgruntled sound, and shakes his head.

“Problem?” Stanley asks.

“Not at all,” Charles replies, though he pouts about it, his cheeks hollowing out a little. His eyes narrow, full of challenge. Stanley has the sense he knows exactly what he is doing, and he won’t rise to it. He flexes his hand anyway, and feels the tension move from his fingers through his tendons to his bicep.

Charles takes a step back and Stanley is glad of the space. He leans his shoulders against the door while he watches Charles kick off his shoes and his hands go to the front of his trousers. He breathes out to the sound of the fly unzipping, and notices when Charles’ shoulders and chest rise and fall in time with his. With an arch of his eyebrow and a lop-sided smirk, Charles slides his hand into his underwear and Stanley watches the crook of his wrist stretching the waistband, the shape of his fingers beneath the fabric as he picks up a pace. Closing the distance between them again, he covers Charles’ hand with his, first over the fabric and then pushing inside. Charles lets him take over and begins unbuttoning his shirt at the same glacial pace that Stanley is stroking him.

“Do you always go this slow?” he asks, and his breath catches as Stanley turns his wrist and swipes over the slit of his cock with his thumb.

“Places to be?” Stanley asks and withdraws his hand to a huff of protestation. He gets a hold of the loose front of Charles’ shirt. It’s crisp and fine, simple and expensive. He bunches it up in his fist and pulls Charles closer. Charles moves easily with him and loops his arms around Stanley’s waist. 

“No, I- _fuck,”_ Charles gasps as his cock meets Stanley’s however separated by their clothes. Stanley dips into the back of Charles’ trousers and grabs a broad handful of his arse. He squeezes hard, grinds up closer still, slides one finger between the cheeks and feels Charles tense against him. Charles inhales with a hiss through his teeth and leans his forehead against Stanley’s shoulder. His hands are frantic again, pulling at Stanley’s belt and groping at his dick.

“Shh,” Stanley says and walks him backwards.

Charles doesn’t fall when his legs hit the bed, rather he waits for Stanley to shove him down. He shifts back and lies spread out on the sheets for him, his shirt falling open around his chest and stomach, revealing full flesh over a small frame. _Thomas was leaner,_ is the single cruel thought that crosses Stanley's mind and his ears are ringing. It’s low and distant, but he’s aware of it closing in on him. He digs his nails into crescent marks at Charles’ hips and lowers himself down. He traces a path with a brush of lips and the tip of his nose down Charles’ torso. He feels muscles flutter beneath the skin as he reaches his cock, waiting swollen hard and leaking.

As his tongue touches the tip and he takes the head into his mouth Charles arches up under him.

"Oh my god, I didn't think you were the type. Not that I'm complaining just you wouldn't even ki- oh my _god,"_ Charles babbles and moans as Stanley sucks and pushes his tongue against Charles’ length.

He works first with his mouth then a hand too, and Charles mewls out a string of plaintive noises when he stops and pulls back, tugging Charles' trousers and underwear down his legs. He tosses the clothes to the side and holds eye contact with Charles as he draws his middle finger into his mouth and lets it go with a lewd pop. Charles grins at him, plants his feet on the mattress and spreads his knees wider. Stanley ducks back between them and as he sinks into Charles' hole and hits deep inside him, the endless stream of chatter drilling at his head explodes in one sharp “Fuck!” and then resumes.

Stanley heaves himself up and leans his weight over Charles’ body, he slides his finger back and forth and then deep again and Charles bucks and yelps and grasps at Stanley’s arm. Stanley’s thumb rubs rough behind his balls, and Charles' fingers are bunching up in Stanley’s shirt sleeves.

“God, I knew you’d have the best hands,” Charles manages through another moan and his head rolls back. “Do that again.”

Stanley clamps a hand over Charles’ open mouth.

“Do you ever shut up?” he growls, his lips against his knuckles, his nose fits alongside Charles’ and his vision starts to blur.

Charles somehow _keeps talking,_ muffled and unintelligible but Stanley can feel his lips moving, and the rise and fall of each panting breath beneath him. He screws his eyes closed but when he opens them again he still can’t pull Charles into focus, can’t read his expression. He doesn’t want to. He drops his forehead to his arm and adds another finger, burying himself deep in Charles. He fucks him harder and faster on his fingers until the pain of his headache propels him back away from the bed. He can see the shape of Charles pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Turn over,” he orders. _Don’t look._

Stanley pushes his trousers down and pulls his dick out over the waistband of his boxers. He’s rough with himself as he gives a few dry strokes and slides on a condom. Charles is stretched but not enough and Stanley shoves into him with cold lubricant and thick force and doesn’t stop when Charles’ voice hitches and catches on the word _wait._ He has nothing but how Charles feels around him, the firm meat of his arse in his hands, the way Stanley’s thumb fits into the dimples above the curve of his cheeks.

“Is this what you do to all the nice boys who make a pass at you?” Charles grinds out, his voice wavering and broken.

Stanley lets go of his hips and tips forward, catching his weight on one arm beside Charles’ face. His body is stretched over Charles’ back, his teeth at Charles’ ear, his other hand tight on the back of his neck.

“That’s enough. If I hear another word I’ll make sure it’s the last worthless sound you ever make.”

Stanley holds him there while he fucks him. Charles rocks back and pushes against him again and again, the twist of bedsheets stifling his moans and half-words each time Stanley thrusts. It’s only when he goes still that Stanley lets go of his neck, leans back and snaps his hips harder until with a grunt and a heavy breath he finishes inside his pliant body.

When he comes back from the bathroom Charles is sitting on the edge of the bed, doing up his shirt buttons. His cheeks are flushed deep red.

Stanley checks his watch. “I’m going down to the bar.”

Charles raises his eyebrows and tilts his head slightly, as if he’s waiting for more. Stanley offers nothing further and Charles gives a short laugh with no humour in it.

“I’ll pass on that, thank you.”

“Fine,” Stanley goes to the door. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

“No, yeah, I got it.”

Stanley stops in the hallway and rests his head against the door. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. He hears water running in the room and it snaps him back. He hurries downstairs. He has no desire to be in the hallway when Charles emerges.

He takes a seat at the bar and orders a bottle of still mineral water. He waits for half an hour, his elbow on the bar and his forehead resting on his palm. He sits up only when the clink of ice against the glass makes him wince, and he finds the aspirin in his pocket, swallows down two pills with the water. His jaw hurts from the tension of forcing the headache back, of gritting and grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. He calls for his car. He sits with his back to the foyer and doesn’t look for Charles leaving. Only when he’s sure he must have gone, and his phone lights up with the notification that his driver is here, does Stanley go back upstairs. He listens at the door and enters without knocking. Charles has straightened out the bedsheets and everything looks clean.

On the way to the front desk he takes his phone out and holds it to his ear only to lower it and tuck it back into his pocket as he turns the corner into the foyer.

“Change of plan,” he says to the receptionist’s bored and unremarkable face. “I’ll be checking out early.”

* * *

“I met a boy,” he says to Mary-Ann at breakfast that weekend.

It is not the first time he has said exactly that to her, and although the frequency with which he makes the announcement has slowed over the years, neither of them have any reason to believe it will be the last. As such, she doesn’t reply or even appear from behind the broadsheet, but he feels the edge of her foot come to rest against his under the table.

It’s just the two of them. Alex has already gone to the hospital, and Catriona has been placated with a round of toast and jam and an enormous pot of tea in bed. She will eat and drink and read and snooze and won’t be downstairs for some time.

“At the restaurant the other night,” Stanley continues and takes the cigarette case from his pocket, placing it on the table by her arm. “He sent me something.”

Mary-Ann folds her paper down and looks over the top of her glasses at the case.

“May I?” she asks, her hand hovering over it.

“Of course.”

She turns it over for inspection much as he had done. She takes in the delicate engraving, the unusual design, and the balance of it in her hand. Her mouth twists in consideration and then she looks up at him.

“Very generous,” she says evenly, and sets it back down.

Her hand rests on the table near his, the tips of their fingers almost touching. He stares at the millimetre of space between them, and takes a deep breath.

“He sent it to the office,” he says. “Only, I didn't tell him where I work.”

When Thomas had left, when he had eventually and absolutely made his final sweeping exit and no more trace of him remained, Stanley had promised he would never let that happen again. That no matter who or what he got himself involved with, he wouldn't let it touch or hurt his family. He would keep them safe.

But he has been careless with Charles. One or two details too many and look what has happened. It would take a certain amount of determination to find him, and a certain amount of disregard for his privacy. Charles had gone to the effort, and squared away any notion that it might be inappropriate. _Thomas' effort. His determination._ Pride and pain had coursed through Stanley, four years ago now, and it comes for him again, in a familiar flood of flattery and violation.

All this he puts into the lightest touch as he edges his fingertips forward to meet Mary-Ann's on the table. A word from her now and he will not let Charles into his life, into their lives.

“Are you going to see him again?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Stanley says and closes his eyes. He’s looking for patterns, for a shred of certainty. But at the moment Charles exists only as pure potential. Stanley lets the possibilities - the good and bad, the risk and reward - punch and kick and choke behind his eyelids before he looks back at his wife.

She has taken off her glasses and they sit above her forehead, cushioned in rich brown curls. Her eyes bare and blue soften as he meets them, warmed through with a smile that comes not from her lips but inside. There’s a pause as she reaches over to touch his cheek, a light caress with the back of her fingers. It’s a gesture of devotion, all at once paling in comparison to his, meeting it, and surpassing it. Unwavering devotion and resilience. It feels like absolution, a reprieve from the guilt he still feels, and a commuting of the sentence he has given himself. He turns his face to kiss her knuckles.

“It’s been a long time,” she says.

“Yes.”

“We’re okay, all of us,” she says kindly, and a smile begins to pull at her mouth, all but calling him melodramatic.

“Yes,” he sighs. She knew, of course, that he had already made up his mind. That he had done so some time before sitting down to breakfast. “Yes, I’m going to see him again.”

She leans back and smiles, flicks her glasses back down to her nose, and turns back to her newspaper.

* * *

“What?” Charles barks, five days and numerous missed calls after The Beauford.

“Do you always answer the phone like that?” Stanley asks. Having assumed the call would ring off again, he adjusts his annoyance at being ignored to annoyance at bad manners.

“No, that’s just for you.”

“How did you-”

“No one fucking _calls_ , and even the spammers have less persistence”

“But you have relented.”

“Only to tell you to fuck off,” Charles spits and hangs up.

Stanley stares at the phone, balls his other hand into a fist and raps the desk with his knuckles. He counts backwards from ten. Either Charles is waiting for him to try again, or this last call will go ignored and any decision Stanley has made will become immaterial. He presses redial.

“I usually like a little more input,” Charles answers immediately, and continues as if he hadn’t stopped arguing despite the broken connection. “Even a yes or no would be an improvement.”

Then there is a silence.

“I was under the impression-” Stanley begins.

“But it’s so much nicer to know for certain, isn’t it?” Charles’ voice drips with faux pleasantry, and Stanley can hear the clenched teeth and sarcastic rictus grin.

“Charles-”

“Don’t get me wrong, I was _absolutely_ looking for a thorough fucking and will continue to do so, but like I said on the whole I’d rather be a more active participant. But if that’s not your thing then that’s fine, we can go our separate ways, move on with our lives, best regards, et fucking cetera.”

“Charles.”

“Yes?”

“Come and meet me again. Let me make it up to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> content warning! quoth the robokittens: 'really the end is sort of like, stanley calling to ask chas out, and chas being like "i'm not saying i didn't like it i'm just saying it was **_technically rape,_ and that's rude**." he's just annoyed by it. which, charles, please look into therapy'
> 
> stay safe, friends. i love you


End file.
